


We're gonna come together, we're gonna celebrate

by Mellaithwen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Sex, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Requited Love, Schmoop, Sexual Content, Surprise Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Steve thinks about what they’ve both been through over the past few weeks, hell, over the past few years and he knows that they deserve this. Plus he really needs to get Bucky out of the house for his plan to work, so he might as well do it in style.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Come on,” he whines, poking at Bucky’s leg incessantly. “It’ll be fun, just the two of us.”</i>
</p><p>Steve takes Bucky to dinner before his surprise birthday party, and Bucky tries very hard not to jump a national icon in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're gonna come together, we're gonna celebrate

**Author's Note:**

> [lazulisong](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong) suggested that everyone should write happy fluffy fic for Bucky's birthday so here's my contribution :) 
> 
> The title is from Birthday by Kings of Leon. It seemed apt *cough*
> 
> Set in the magical future where things aren't quite as painful as they are now, and Civil War hasn't destroyed everyone...

 

“Get dressed, I’m taking you to dinner.” Steve yells from the kitchen to the living room, as though it’s something he’s thought of spontaneously and not spent weeks organising.

 

“It’s freezing outside, can’t we just get take out?” Bucky yells back, so now both of them are shouting back and forth like an old married couple, even though it’s completely unnecessary considering they practically have super hearing. 

 

Steve steps into the living room and stares at Bucky sitting cross-legged on the sofa in his sweatpants—he’s staring out at Brooklyn covered in snow as the sun starts to set early. Steve thinks about what they’ve both been through over the past few weeks, hell, over the past few _years_ and he knows that they deserve this. Plus he really needs to get Bucky out of the house for his plan to work, so he might as well do it in style.

 

“Come on,” he whines, poking at Bucky’s leg incessantly. “It’ll be fun, just the two of us.”

 

“It’s a goddamn frozen tundra outside, and you want to go out into it for dinner?!”

 

“Stop being so dramatic, it’s March! March means Spring!” Steve says, ignoring the snow falling outside their window and instead poking Bucky until he cries out, “Okay, _fine,_ we’ll go for dinner, but I’m _not_ changing.”

 

“Nope. Wrong. Try again. This is a strictly sweatpants-free evening.”

 

“You’re lucky I like you, Rogers. Or we’d be having words right now.”

 

“Don’t I know it.” Steve replies, hustling Bucky into the bedroom to hurry him along, while surreptitiously texting Natasha to say that their plan is in motion. “Oh and, wear the navy jacket, you—uh, you look good in blue.”

 

“Something else we have in common.” Bucky replies, straightening Steve’s tie suggestively, before heading into the bedroom to change.

 

.

 

“Spring, my ass.” Bucky moans, as they walk along the slushy snow-covered sidewalk to get to the restaurant. His teeth chatter, and he’s already missing the stifling heat of the subway car now that they’re back above ground and the snowfall has started up again.

 

“ _Gee_ , if only the history books knew you were such a cry-baby.”

 

“Well, _gosh_ , maybe someone should tell them what an asshole you are.”

 

“You love me really.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, looking down at their fingers interlocking. “I really do.”

 

.

 

“So,” Bucky starts, when they’re sat at their table, picking up his glass of whisky and twirling it dramatically. “Come here often?” He takes a sip of his alcohol and savours the taste, even though the intoxicating effect is lost on him.

 

“Shut up,” Steve chides, trying not to blush when Bucky’s foot is steadily trailing higher up his leg under the table. 

 

“Aw, doesn’t Captain America like a bit of role play?” And suddenly there’s a hungry look in Steve’s eyes that has Bucky sobering up immediately. “Or _does he_?”

 

Steve clears his throat as their waitress arrives to take their order, and Bucky yelps suddenly when he sits up and misjudges the distance between the table and his knee, smacking it hard. _So much for acting nonchalant,_ he thinks, as though he hadn’t just been playing footsie under the table with a national icon. 

 

The waitress, bless her heart, says nothing, but smiles knowingly. 

 

“I’ll give you guys some more time to think about what you want.” She says.

 

.

 

“I think I’ll have the salmon, or, no, wait, you said the special was lamb?”

 

“He’s always like this, so indecisive.” Bucky jokes with the waitress.

 

“Not always.” Steve mutters, barely loud enough to hear, and he shoots Bucky a look that says, _I chose you, didn’t I?_

 

.

 

“So tell me more about how I look good in blue.” Bucky says casually.

 

“Did I say that?” Steve asks, jokingly. “It doesn’t sound like something I’d say. Are you sure I wasn’t talking about Sam? Or maybe Tony?”

 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Bucky sighs theatrically. “God knows you prefer me in my birthday suit—” Bucky’s eyes light up all of a sudden. “Hey, tomorrow I really _will_ be in my birthday suit.”

 

“Oh, is it your birthday tomorrow?” Steve asks, browsing through the drinks menu as though he had no idea.

 

“Can it, Rogers, you’re a shitty liar and I’m not an idiot.”

 

“Jury’s still out on that one, bud.”

 

“Screw you, I know you’ve got something planned.” A beat, and then, “Come on, tell me, tell me, tell me.”

 

“You know what I never understood? How you can be so impatient but somehow excel at being an agent.”

 

“It’s just one of life’s great mysteries, Stevie, now _tell me._ ”

 

“Maybe the plan is that I didn’t plan anything.”

 

“What sort of plan is that?”

 

“A _Steve Rogers_ original?”

 

“You’re the worst. Or something. But, you know what? This?” he says, looking around the dimly lit restaurant with its flickering candlelight. “This is good. This is nice.”

 

Over the low murmuring chatter, a trumpet starts to play, and nothing has come close to reminding them both of the dance halls from way back when until this moment. _Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love you.._

 

“You know you don’t have to woo me though, right?” Bucky asks rhetorically, as he reaches over the table, and takes a hold of Steve’s hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles in a gentle and loving gesture. “I’m yours, till the end of the line, bud.”

 

“You know, I keep waiting for that to get old and it never does.”

 

“A bit like us then.”

 

“Bad-um-bum- _tshh_.” Steve jokes, one-handedly miming a drum solo for comic effect, but his eyes are a little wet, and the music plays on from Fitzgerald’s verse to Armstrong’s in time for their food to arrive. It smells amazing, and tastes even moreso, and even though whatever was done to him makes getting drunk a real gargantuan effort, Bucky’s pretty sure he could get drunk on this moment alone. Pretty _wasted_ , even.

 

So he congratulates himself on not jumping Steve right there an then in the restaurant, even though he looks damn good in his blue button down shirt, and grey suit jacket.  And even though Bucky loves it when Captain America gets all flustered with public displays of affection, he much prefers it when Rogers takes control. Cool, calm and collected. 

 

It’s fine, Bucky can wait. 

 

.

 

That’s a lie.

 

He absolutely cannot wait, and his knees bounce for the whole subway ride home, until Steve rests his hand on his right knee and Bucky groans in frustration instead. 

 

.

 

They’ve barely made it to the stoop outside their front door, when Bucky’s on him. Steve’s cheeks are pink from the cold, and there’s freshly fallen snow in his hair and on his face and his shoulders and Bucky can’t wait any longer. He grabs Steve by the collar of his coat and pulls him forward—their teeth knock together in Bucky’s haste, before their lips catch up and join in the fray. Tongue-tied, they turn and move their bodies back up against the wall of their apartment’s hallway. Bucky can’t get enough of the taste and keeps diving in for more and so does Steve until suddenly he’s pushing James back gently, eyes still closed.

 

“Bucky, wait—” He starts while Bucky’s hands reach around under Steve’s coat, fluttering over the muscles in his back before reaching down and cupping Steve’s ass.

 

“Come on Stevie, you bought me dinner, we had _chocolate covered strawberries_ for god’s sake, you really think I’m not gonna—”

 

“Buck.” Steve breathes, interrupting the tirade, while Bucky’s teeth nip at his bottom lip in return. Steve can’t help but moan as metal fingers make a beeline for his belt. Steve needs to stop this, because he has a plan and this, while enjoyable, is not a part of the plan—but his brain’s short-circuiting with pleasure and everything else can wait. Right?

 

They’re still groping one another in the doorway in the dark when Bucky hears a rustling from inside the apartment. He goes still—poised for a fight, a knife in hand—and Steve wonders if Bucky had that with him the whole time they were at dinner. He doesn’t get a chance to ask before Bucky’s pushing Steve behind him, while at the same time going for the light switch. 

 

“Surprise!” The room shouts at him joyfully, and suddenly there are balloons and banners and streamers and way more people than their apartment is really used to housing. 

 

Speechless, Bucky puts the knife away and turns to look back at Steve—who is currently leaning against the doorway, breathless. His lips are red, his eyes glassy, and the beginnings of a few hundred hickies are already making themselves visible on his neck. Oops.

 

“You sneaky bastard.”

 

Steve just smiles back, sheepishly, and Bucky turns to watch as their friends climb out of their hiding places. They’re only too happy to ignore how close they all came to seeing Captain America and his faithful sidekick climax, illuminated by the porch light, surrounded by snow. 

 

“But—it’s not, I mean—my birthday’s tomorrow?” Bucky stammers, staring, almost giddy, between the presents piled near the front window, their guests, and Steve.

 

“I figured you’d know I was up to something, so I thought I’d throw you a curve-ball.” Steve explains, but frowns when Bucky doesn’t say anything. “That’s—I mean, is this okay?”

 

“Okay? Are you kidding?” Bucky steps forward, eyes bright and shining. His hand cups Steve’s jaw before he plants a soft kiss on his lips. “It’s perfect.”

 

“Aww, PDA.” Clint mutters, while Tony shouts, _“Get a room!”_ and Pepper smacks him on the arm as affectionately as a long suffering partner can.

 

“We’ve got quite the spread for you, Barnes, and Fury sends his regards.” Maria says, as she opens a packet of paper plates and napkins and sets them down on the table, just as Sharon starts to give them the low-down on the birthday buffet that’s being unveiled.

 

“We’ve got mac and cheese, food on a stick, which is always fun—”

 

“Pizza bagels!” Clint cheers, while his dog Lucky pads forward and sniffs at Bucky’s feet in the hope of being stroked. 

 

“Pizza bagels that _I bought_.” Kate corrects, and when Barton makes to argue, Lucky whines and they stop before they get a chance to start. 

 

“Good boy,” Bucky praises, whilst bending down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

 

“Jane recommended ‘store-bought’ items,” Thor pipes up, gesturing to a corner of the impromptu buffet table ladled with croissants and cinnamon swirls, “such as these pastries.”

 

“The cannoli’s are _to die for_.” Darcy confirms, while Jane points out that she has cream by the side of her mouth. “I baked you these four cupcakes.” She goes on to explain, “and the reason there are only four is because they are _special_ and _unique_ and _not_ because the rest burnt or were dropped prior to decoration.”

 

“There’s also some mini-grilled cheeses,” Pepper intervenes, smiling, “and I remember you saying you really enjoyed sushi the last time we ordered it, so there’s some of that too.”

 

“Guys, this is—I don’t even know what to say…” 

 

“Thank you?” Natasha smirks. “It’s the customary response. I brought the piroshki by the way.”

 

“Of course you did, and _thank you_ ,” Bucky emphasises to the room, staring wide-eyed at the change in his and Steve’s apartment. Their dining table is teeming with food and drink and taking centre stage is a birthday cake that no one has taken credit for. It’s decorated with red and blue fondant, that run in stripes and swirls along the side of the cake, while _Happy Birthday Bucky_ has been written in white icing along the top in familiar handwriting.

 

He’s glad that with his enhanced metabolism, it’s not really an issue that he and Steve just got back from dinner. His mouth is already salivating, and while Steve takes their coats, and Nat puts on some music, Bucky takes the opportunity to look around again. There’s a bowl full of skittles, next to a row of shot glasses that are just as colourful. The few photo frames they have that normally rest on shelves on the bookcase have been carefully laid flat to avoid breakages. Pepper is unfolding little umbrellas to go into drinks, and there’s a punch bowl filled to the brim with an orange liquid that smells like mangoes, next to a packet of red cups.

 

Their sofa’s been moved to the side of the room, up against the wall, making plenty of space for everyone to move around and—

 

“Is that a margarita machine?”

 

“You bet your shiny metal arm it is.” 

 

“Let me guess, Tony, you just had it lying around?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“You know I can’t really get drunk, right?”

 

“Hey, it’s not all about _you_.” Sam smirks, standing beneath a _happy birthday_ banner that says quite the opposite.  “And before you ask,” he says, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “I brought my mom’s cookies, but after last time, I figure it’s best if they stay hidden in your kitchen until everybody leaves.”

 

“Speaking of _‘last time_ ’, where’s Bruce?” Steve asks moments before the doorbell rings to reveal Dr. Banner with an apologetic smile, and a take-away bag from Max Brenner.

 

“Sorry I’m late. Steve said you had a bit of a sweet tooth, so I thought chocolate was a safe bet.”

 

“You thought correctly.” Bucky grins, inviting Bruce into the apartment just as a few balloons had started trying to leave in the cold wind of the open door.

 

.

 

“I don’t think this cake has enough candles.”

 

“Seems accurate to me.”

 

“I’m in my _twenties_ —”

 

“Late twenties.” Steve corrects. “Late _nineties_.”

 

“Har har, bet’cha won’t be laughing when our apartment burns down.”

 

“Shut up and make a wish already.”

 

“It already came true.” Bucky says then, ignoring Nat, Clint and Tony as they stick their fingers in their mouths and pretend to gag, and instead focusing on the way the shadows dance on Steve’s face in the candlelight, before he blows out almost a hundred candles in one fell swoop.

 

The apartment does not burn down, but they do manage to set the tablecloth on fire.

 

“Hey guys, how many Avengers does it take to put out a fire?” Clint asks later, as though he’s telling the start of a joke. His answer is cut off when a room full of sharp-shooters, superheroes, assassins and their spouses start throwing dorito chips in his face.

 

“Someone throw me some dip!”

 

Someone does.

 

Clint regrets his decision almost immediately, while Sharon mourns the wasted guacamole that’s now covering Barton’s face, instead of her potato chips.

 

.

 

“Having fun?” Steve asks, drinking more punch. “Man, this is so good. Did you know it’s got passion fruit in it?”

 

“Yeah, you can hardly even taste the vodka Tony spiked it with.”

 

“Do you think he’s forgotten that we’re all adults, and he doesn’t actually need to _spike_ the punch?”

 

“Especially when Darcy’s already beaten him to it.”

 

“Beating him _to the punch_ , ha, get it?”

 

“People really underestimate your wit, Rogers.” Bucky says, with a wry grin.

 

“Yes, they do. But seriously, you’re having fun, right?”

 

“I just watched mild-mannered Bruce Banner teach Thor, god of thunder, how to dance the cha-cha-slide. Trust me, Steve, I’m having fun.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says with obvious relief. “Okay, that’s good.”

 

.

 

_“Lonely rivers flow, to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the seaaa._ ”

 

“That’s not the song.” Steve laughs into Bucky’s ear as he leans in close while they continue to slow dance. 

 

Most of the balloons have started to deflate and now drift around the floor aimlessly, shifting like ghosts between their dancing feet. Sharon and Bruce are talking quietly on the sofa, sharing a mug of tea between one another, with Lucky the dog curled up asleep at their feet. Pepper and Tony are dancing to their left, with Sam and Maria on their right, and behind them Jane and Thor are doing something closer to swaying while hugging, but whatever it is, it works for them. Her feet don’t touch the ground. 

 

“Yes it is.” Bucky tells Steve adamantly, looking over his shoulder in time to see Kate and Natasha take turns in playing human-buckaroo with a sleeping Clint Barton, while Darcy films it all on her phone.

 

“No, you’re singing _Unchained Melody_.”

 

“Yes….wait—what are we dancing to?”

 

“ _Can’t Help Falling In Love_ by Elvis Presley.”

 

“No wait, see,” he says, waiting for the bridge for him to jump in “. _.love with youuu, lonely rivers flow—_ oh wait—”

 

“ _Like a_ river flows, _surely_ to the sea,” Steve corrects, as they continue to sway.

 

“Don’t stop, keep going. The sixties are just a blur to me anyhow, and Sam’s musical education is clearly not to be reckoned with.”

 

“‘ _Take my hand,’_ ” Steve continues, crooning soft and low, in sync with the song playing in the background as the party winds down for the evening. “ _‘Take my whole life too, for I can’t help, falling in love with you.’”_

 

.

 

Later, much, much later, when they’re alone, and their living room is just a little bit trashed because the avengers & co. are kind of lousy house guests, Steve’s picking red cups up off of the floor when Bucky says, “Stop, stay, don’t move.”

 

Steve’s first instinct is to panic, but then Bucky’s sighing, staring at Steve’s butt and saying, “Damn, that’s a good view.” 

 

Steve straightens, and uses an empty cup as a projectile—grinning when it hits Bucky square in the face. His relaxed pose, leaning in the doorframe, is destroyed and he’s spluttering, beer dripping down his chin. 

 

_Maybe not quite empty then_ , Steve thinks.

 

“Hey! I was paying you a compliment!” Bucky complains, taking three steps forward and using Steve’s shirt to wipe his face.

 

“Nice,” Steve says rolling his eyes.

 

“So,” Bucky coughs, reaching around Steve’s waist, “what I really want to know is when did you even have the time to bake a cake without me noticing?”

 

“How’d you know it was me?”

 

“Oh please, you think I can’t tell when I’m eating an original Sarah Rogers recipe?” Bucky scoffs, mindlessly twirling his fingers in Steve’s hair as he does so. “And you always did have the nicest handwriting in class.”

 

“You remember that?”

 

“I remember getting yelled at ‘cause you wouldn’t stop passing notes, you big dope.”

 

“Well I remember faking a coughing fit to get us out of trouble—”

 

“Only then you had an _actual_ coughing fit, so then your mom yelled at us instead.” Bucky reminds him pointedly, taking the rubbish bag out of Steve’s hand and putting it in the kitchen out of the way. 

 

“Not my finest hour.” Steve admits.

 

“Oh don’t worry, you’ve had plenty of those.” Bucky says. “In fact, I think we were in the middle of one before we got interrupted by a certain surprise party.”

 

“You don’t say.” Steve smiles, head bowed as Bucky comes closer—both of them standing less than a hair’s breadth away from one another. Steve can feel his cheeks start to redden, just as he can feel the press of Bucky’s erection brush up against his thigh.

 

“I love it when you blush,” Bucky tells him, pulling at the collar of his shirt, and undoing the buttons one-by-one. “The tips of your ears go bright pink, and it runs down the back of your neck and, all the way down your chest.”

 

Steve reaches out and takes both of Bucky’s hands in his own, leaving his shirt to hang open. He leads them into their bedroom, and the moment they’re there, Steve pushes Bucky back up against the wall, pulling at James’ shirt with none of the finesse Bucky displayed a moment ago. A few buttons pops off, and fall to the floor, but they’re both too busy to notice.

 

Steve pins Bucky’s wrists above him, and holds them there with his right hand, while his left hand cups Bucky’s balls.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, his voice working around the strangled moan he’s trying to contain.

 

Steve huffs a laugh into Bucky’s ear, and says “Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that,” while Bucky ruts up against him, aching and full.  

 

00:01 says the clock on the wall.

 

“Ready for your birthday present?”

 

Bucky looks down at their discarded ties on the floor, and says, “Shouldn’t you be wrapped, first?”

 

“As if you even have to ask.”

 

.

 

Hours later, Bucky wakes up from a blessed dreamless sleep and lies in bed staring at the ceiling in a contented daze. 

 

The clock on the nightstand reads 05:56am, and Steve is a warm comforting presence by his side, propped up against the headboard, with his sketchbook in hand. Still sated from the night’s activities, James can see that Steve’s using a blue-biro to colour in Bucky’s edges on the page. The curve of a bicep that winds down to a sharp point at his elbow. Fingers elongated. Hard hands that betray soft touch. The bone of his wrist. The scar from their last mission, pink and faded on his forearm (by next week it will be gone.)

 

“So how are you liking your birthday so far?” Steve asks quietly, when he notices that Bucky’s awake. He puts his notebook away and shuffles down into the bed, leaning over so that he’s lying on Bucky’s chest and staring up at him instead—illuminated by the city lights still streaming through the crack in their bedroom’s curtains, while the city wakes up around them.

 

“Best fucking birthday ever.”

 

“Emphasis on the fucking?” Steve asks, smirking.

 

“Among other things.” Bucky replies, nuzzling closer into Steve’s embrace with a happy sigh. “Best _fucking_ birthday ever.”

 

.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 05:56am is the time I finished writing this, so that's why it's the time on Bucky and Steve's clock... ;)
> 
> and hey, feel free to say hello on [tumblr](http://mellaithwen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
